Play on Words
by Intricacy
Summary: It was supposed to be a school play. If I'd known that it meant being sent to an imaginary primitive world with Mudblood Granger, I wouldn't have signed up. Well, I only signed up to skip class, but that's not the point. AU Sent Diligio rewrite 2005
1. Prologue: Bad or Worse? Take Your Pick

_**Play on Words**_

**Revised Edition of ****Sent Diligio**Please note that, under this story's completion, Sent Diligio will be forever deleted.

It was supposed to be a school play! If I'd had known it intended to ship me off to this primitive imaginary world with none other than bucktoothed Granger, I never would have signed up. The only bloody reason I signed up anyways was to skip class, but that's another point entirely. DHr. AU, written in 2005. Revised edition of Sent Diligio

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; this applies to the entire story.

Written and completed in 2005, though looking back, I shudder at the disgusting writing. Finally got around to rewriting the whole thing! If you guys are too impatient for updates, the whole thing's already up in another story under this account, titled SENT DILIGIO. However, the quality is very poor and I discourage you from reading it, as it will ruin your experience of reading this newer version.

This beginning chapter is rather weird, told in two point of views. After writing this, I have concluded I much rather writing from Draco's point of view (first) instead of Hermione's (second), maybe because I'm such a sarcastic person to begin with. Hopefully it'll seem enough obnoxious to you!

Enjoy & review!

Once again, this story is rather **AU** and takes place in their seventh year; the war is not yet heavy.

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_Chapter One_

The beginning of the school year was nothing spectacular, and it was getting rather drab. It was September, and, as I have come to realize, the best September this school had ever met was the same September I was Sorted as a first year. As the years passed, September seemed to grow less exciting and held more of a dreary dullness. Now, in my seventh year, September 1st was positively boring, listening to that old coot drone on and on about some nonsense or whatsoever – you know, the things that only know-it-alls such as that one Mudblood Granger cares to listen to.

The Sorting this year was rather droll as compared to the brilliance of mine. That Sorting Hat must be suffering from old age of sorts, what with the Sortings growing more boring as each year passed by. The first years even look more insignificant than ever. Why, when _I_ was a first year, I'll have you know that I was something _grand_, not at all like… David Blechman, was that his name? Scrawny little bloke with a too pointy face, if you ask me.

"I am proud to say that this year, there will be a special event being hosted at Hogwarts!" the old coot that others might call the Headmaster proclaimed, his eyes twinkling. Snape – the only _proper _teacher in the entire bloody school – frowned, his brows furrowed in disagreement. I knew that my godfather disagreed with Dumbledore's cheerful statement, though proper manners restricted him from otherwise revealing his opinions. "This year, we will be hosting a school play for school unity!"

I could laugh at this statement. Unity? If he expected me and Potter to just hit off within these next few weeks, he's got a St. Mungo's referral letter coming to him. I could just imagine the scenario: "Hey, Potter, I'm sorry you're such an arsehole and a Mudblood-lover. Let's be best friends forever." This coot clearly had too much to drink last night. If my father heard about this!

A sneer crossed my face as my eyes fell on the Gryffindor table. One glance ensured me that Potter felt the same way toward me; he had no intention of befriending me anytime soon. Not that he had any to worry about – I would never stoop down to his level, anyways. My lips curled a little further before I redirected my attention back onto the Headmaster.

"But not just any play!" Dumbledore said cheerfully. I had been waiting for this. He was always so dramatic. The fact remained that it was a _play_, and you could bloody well be catching me professing my undying love to Granger before I willingly audition for a play. "Hogwarts will be _creating_ its own play, with our very own directors, scriptwriters, actors, stage crew, make-up artists, and more!"

Creating a play. That's bloody exciting! I can't wait! Why don't we just paint our fingernails and curl our hair while we're at it? Or, better yet, someone Avada me now.

"All years are invited to participate. You will find a sheet of parchment in your common room; take a copy and fill in what you would like to do and turn them into your Head of House. Those who are accepted will have schedule adjustments." He beamed across the Great Hall.

I paused. Schedule adjustments? Did that mean –

Weasley said something loudly from the Gryffindor table. I glared at him for asking another of his stupid questions – not that I actually listened to his question, as they were always stupid. The arsehole couldn't help but be an attention-seeker every other bloody minute.

"Oh yes! I have seem to forgotten that little bit," the old coot said brightly. "Those who participate in the play will have fewer classes to give time to construct the play, which I expect to be in top form. Those of you who wish not to participate will have the normal course schedule."

Who would've known that the coot could read minds? Better watch myself around him from now on – hang on. Did he just say –

"Fewer classes!" Blaise said from the other side of Goyle. "What d'you reckon?"

Well, screw Granger and me professing my love. Let's skip right on to participating in the play!

---------------------------------

Mr. Weasley had hinted at something particularly exciting this year – nothing on the Triwizard Tournament, of course, but something more than the normal course. "What do you think?" Ron was asking Harry in an undertone. "Maybe it'll be something like the maze – always wondered how that one worked out – he's going to give us practical training before, you know, You-Know-Who comes back!"

"Maybe it'll be a field trip," I suggested from beside Harry. "Maybe we'll go to the Muggle world, you know – it would be nice to see how those Slytherins would fare." We all glanced simultaneously over our shoulders toward the Slytherin table. "Maybe that would teach them to respect us Muggleborns more," I finished somewhat smugly.

"Muggle world?" Ron looked oddly blank. "But I – "

"Shush!" I whispered hurriedly, elbowing Harry – who was quite in my way, so I couldn't get to Ron – sharply in the ribs. He gasped and glared at me, but I paid no attention. The Headmaster was speaking.

"I am proud to say that this year, there will be a special event being hosted at Hogwarts!" Dumbledore said jovially, his eyes twinkling. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Snape looked rather disapproving. "This year, we will be hosting a school play for school unity!"

"A school play!" I gasped, clutching Harry's arm. While it was nothing on a field trip to the Muggle world or completing a maze as Harry did in the Triwizard tournament, it would certainly be exciting. "For school unity! How brilliant!"

"School unity?" Harry and Ron both said blandly, looking over their shoulders at what I knew to be the Slytherin table. No doubt they were analyzing the possibilities of befriending Malfoy. I sighed at their immaturity.

"If that means befriending Malfoy," Ron said loudly, "then no bloody way. I think I'd rather take a turn in my grand-uncle's coffin, thanks. Mind you, he keeps decapitated frog p – "

"Thank you, Ron," I said sharply. Dumbledore was talking – and besides, I do _not_ in the least want to know what his grand-uncle kept in his coffin.

"But not just any play!" Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Hogwarts will be _creating_ its own play, with our very own directors, scriptwriters, actors, stage crew, make-up artists, and more!"

Creating a play. That would explain so much. I squealed in excitement as I clutched Harry's arm a little harder. I barely noticed him wince.

"What?" Harry said, annoyed, trying to pry his arms from my vice grip.

With a small apologetic smile, I removed my hands. "Sorry."

"It's fine." He shook his arm, trying to regain blood flow. "So what was that about?"

"Creating a play – it would require everyone to work together, and right before the war – " I stopped short. Dumbledore was about to talk again; as Harry and Ron both looked at me expectantly, I hissed, "Listen!"

As I predicted, Dumbledore continued in his explanation. "All years are invited to participate. You will find a sheet of parchment in your common room; take a copy and fill in what you would like to do and turn them into your Head of House. Those who are accepted will have schedule adjustments." He beamed across the Great Hall.

Schedule adjustments? I looked at both Ron and Harry, their confusion equally evident on their faces. Surely that didn't mean –

"Schedule adjustments?" Ron said, voicing our thoughts aloud.

"Oh yes! I have seem to forgotten that little bit," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Those who participate in the play will have fewer classes to give time to construct the play, which I expect to be in top form. Those of you who wish not to participate will have the normal course schedule."

I faltered slightly. Fewer lessons? My eyes flickered over to Harry and Ron; none of them shared my predicament. If anything, their cheer was even brighter.

"You can't possibly think of not being in the play," Ron said as I showed no intention of participating.

"But fewer lessons, Ron!" I said, shocked by his carefree manner. "This is our NEWT year!"

"Yeah, but think, Hermione," Harry said, trying to be reasonable before another argument crossed between Ron and me again. "You said it yourself – it was meant to unify us and to help prevent the war's damage."

I faltered slightly. I _did_ say that, and I thought it to be true. "Yes, that's important, but – "

"Listen, Hermione, if Voldemort – "

"_You-Know-Who_!" Ron said through gritted teeth as he winced at Voldemort's name.

Harry ignored him as he always did. " – if Voldemort comes to your house, he doesn't care about how many NEWT's you've got. What we've got to do know is mostly to help the Slytherins and other people who might potentially fall into a Death Eater's footsteps." He paused, looking at me straight in the eye. "And that's more important than all the NEWT's in the world."

Harry somehow managed to convince me to participate in the bloody play that night. Bloody git. He should be a lawyer.

---------------------------------

"Hogwarts School Play," Blaise read aloud, picking up a sheet of parchment from the rather large and ominous-looking pile that greeted us the moment we entered the Slytherin common room. "I think this is the thing the Headmaster was talking about."

"Really?" I sneered, taking a piece of parchment for myself. "I hadn't known." Take a few more steps in the direction, Zabini, you're headed and you'll be right alongside Crabbe, I assure you.

"Just making sure," Blaise replied as he pulled out a quill, seating himself down casually at one end of the table. "I'm surprised that hanging around Crabbe and Goyle that much over the course of the years hasn't stupefied you to the extent of Longbottom yet. 'Course, no offence to you, Crabbe, Goyle." He nodded to each one in turn.

I smirked. Beside me, Crabbe and Goyle sniggered, and I highly doubt that they'd picked up on the fact that they've just been insulted. "Life is full of surprises," I mutter, pulling out my own quill and ink bottle.

"Yeah," Blaise readily agreed under his breath. "First one came when Granger beat you tenfold in school."

If he thought I hadn't heard that! "It's not _my_ fault that all the teachers have got favorites and Granger's a little know-it-all," I sneer sourly. He opened his mouth to retort, and I immediately reached for my wand, holding it in front of him. "And even if she does win by a landslide in school, I still know plenty of hexes that could land you long-time in the Hospital Wing."

He chortled slightly and I thought I heard him repeat the word "landslide." I chose to ignore this as mature as I was and continued on to actually read the parchment in front of me.

I glanced hopefully over at Goyle's sheet, though looking back, it might not have been the most intelligent idea I've come up with. But I was never good with plays – I mean, Merlin's beard, they're _plays_, and I'd rather go and play Quidditch or something worth my time (better yet, goading Potter and Weasley, a rather inviting idea) – and I didn't know the least about them, from ACTING down to the bottom of the list, ZEBRA.

…Hang on, isn't a zebra some kind of an animal? This bloody sheet must've been written by that great oaf Hagrid. A zebra must have six fangs, three eyes and twenty sharp claws or something of that matter. Why the oaf still is at Hogwarts is beyond me, the blundering fool.

Acting. Is that what those idiots do on the stage? I'd much rather spend my time doing something other than making a fool of myself in front of the world. That's only for people like Weasley and Longbottom.

Scroll down to the middle; make-up – no, I will not even finish reading this. Anything that begins with "make-up" ends in "death sentence." Not that _I_ would know anything about it – you know, being the macho man I am, of course.

Lighting. That sounded too much like lightning, and I don't know if you know this dolt, but there's this idiot I know with a lightning shaped scar on his head. I'd rather be caught dead than do something that even remotely has anything to do with him.

This was bloody pointless. I passed my sheet to Crabbe. "Fill it out for me; I'm going to turn in for the night before the shower's grabbed," I declared, standing.

Once again, looking back, that probably was one of the worst decisions I've ever made in my life.

---------------------------------

"WHAT? YOU SIGNED ME UP FOR BLOODY _ACTING?_"

"Draco, please. It's too early for this," Blaise groaned, turning over in his bed, pulling his pillow over his head.

I fumed. "You couldn't have picked, I don't know – " Thing was, I didn't know of what else was on that bloody list, besides lighting, that make-up thing, and the strange zebra position.

"You were asking for it when you handed it to him," Blaise muttered, pulling his covers over his head as well, his voice now well muffled. "Be thankful he didn't sign you up for hairdresser or costume designer – or worse, make-up artist."

"And if you don't want to do it," Nott muttered, equally disgruntled, "you can just fail during auditions."

Failing during auditions. Making a fool out of myself on purpose in front of a couple of judges would be far better than making a fool of myself in front of an entire audience. But see, there's still the little issue of me making a fool of myself – and, as a Malfoy, I _never_ make a fool of myself. Despite what you might hear from Weasley. He's got the twisted, twisted truth. So twisted, in fact, it's not even the truth anymore. It's a lie.

"Acting! Of all the bloody things – "

Crabbe grunted. As stupid as he was (and as stupid I admit he is), he had caught on that I was angry at him. Good. Let him suffer this wrath of fury.

He probably only picked it because it was the first on the list. I bet you he doesn't even know how to read. And acting _had_ to be the first on the list.

" – you couldn't have picked something else, but _ACTING_! If – "

"JUST DON'T GO TO THE AUDITIONS!" Blaise roared, thoroughly irritated.

… Don't go to the auditions. That is a brilliant idea. I surprise myself sometimes with my brilliance.

"Draco!"

A familiar squeal reverberated throughout the dorm. I heard Blaise groan; right after I decided to forgive Crabbe and, out of the kindness of my heart, granted them some quiet, Pansy decided to come. She burst in through the door, smiling brilliantly in delight.

"I heard you signed up for acting!"

"Err…"

I hadn't quite comprehended what she was doing before it was too late. Grabbing me by the wrist (who would've thought that girls had the strongest grip known to mankind? It should not be allowed!), she dragged me out the door, chattering excitedly. It was still early in the morning, and not one word of it was understood by me.

Somehow, _somehow,_ I found myself thrown into the auditions room before seven in the morning with nothing but a word of good luck coming from a girl I wanted to kill with my own hands.

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Hope you enjoyed it; please review. Note that with so many other stories up and the fact that I'm only rewriting this one, I will discontinue this revision if I don't get enough reviews. Sorry to be this way – I probably will continue a couple years from now if I ever get free time, but right now, I'm a little busy. (sad face) 


	2. Choice 1: Kiss the Shrubbery

Finally updated. Hope you enjoy. Please review! More reviews, faster the updates, longer the chapters. Teehee. xP How shameless I am.

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**Choice One:**  
_A - Kiss a rock covered in moss growing to be one meter long  
B - Throw away your dignity and run away screaming  
C - Escape to the Carribean under a new identity and a Memory Charm_

It's true.

It's true it's true it's true it's true it's true it's true it's true.

Bloody hell, it's true.

IT'S TRUE!

**IT'S ONE HUNDRED PERCENT TRUE!**

Or maybe it's not. Maybe I'm still dreaming. Maybe, maybe this past week is just a figment of my overactive imagination and it's still summer vacation. I am currently in the Carribean lying on beautiful white sand, some exotic drink in my left hand, and some beautiful girl with billowing blonde hair and large blue eyes on my right. I simply dozed off, that's all. Just imagined things.

"Congratulations, Draco," Blaise grins. "Lead role."

With that, I am cruelly yanked back to reality. Who needs the Dark Lord when there's this guy here who calls himself "Blaise Zabini?" You know what? I bet he really is the Dark Lord in disguise. He's cruel enough.

Of course, he had to ruin my beautiful getaway to that Carribean island with a six star hotel that only a Malfoy can possibly afford to bring me back into this nightmare called a "school play." I don't even know why I signed up for the stupid bloody thing in the first place. Okay, so I do know, but that's not the point here. The time I spent in the past week telling myself that it's only a horrible, horrible dream is wasted, all that effort in vain. In vain!

"Never thought you'd really make that much of an impression during your audition," Blaise comments lightly as we continue to push our way to that little, mocking piece of parchment inaccurately titled "The Great Hogwarts' School Play Positions." Great Hogwarts' School Play? Things are never accurately named. It should be titled in large, bolded letters, "MEPHISTOPHILIS RETURNS!" "Which reminds me," Blaise continues, "you never told me how the auditions went."

…He _had_ to bring it up.

I've only been trying to forget the fact that it ever happened.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I grumble.

I'm not trying to forget it because it's embarrassing or anything of that sort. After all, I'm a Malfoy. Malfoys are _never_ humiliated. We do the _humiliating_. So maybe there was a whole lot of screaming at the door and kicking the wall… and _possibly_ a temper tantrum. Just one, maybe. …Or two. …Or, well…

Blaise laughs. "I bet you probably went 'When my father hears about this' on them," he says. …Well, there was that, too. "And you pulled your constant 'holier than thou' act. No wonder you got chosen to be the most arrogant git for the play, who just happens to be the lead role. Hey look, Saint Potter's been chosen to be a _hairdresser_, what were they thinking? He can't even manage his _own_ hair…"

I didn't hear him after the term "lead role." Lead role. Lead role? Isn't that the main character? Well, of course, I'd get nothing less than the best, but the fact remains that _I don't want to be the lead role_. They have the most lines. I think. But that means more work. Bloody brilliant.

Blaise still continues to ramble. "Well, you've got Crabbe and Goyle for moral support. They're acting, too. And – hey, check this out! Granger got the leading female role! Millicent's going to throw a fit. She wanted that part for the kissing scene, because everyone knows she can't get one oth – "

Hah, I bet Granger's off her high hippogriff – that is, assuming she can _afford _one, more like her high rodent – when she finds out that I beat her in the cast role. …All right, so she got the lead role too, but I got the _male_ lead role, obviously the better of the two. She's probably bloody pi –

"_KISSING SCENE_?"

KISSING SCENE. KISSING SCENE. KISSING SCENE. GRANGER. BUCKTEETH. MUDBLOOD. UGLY. HAIRY. KISSING. MERLIN. LITERATE THOUGHTS. BASLEUJRLKAJBL;ASUIERIJ

I'd rather eat my own skin!

I swung around and grabbed Blaise by the shoulders, shaking him. "Kissing scene? When my father hears about this – "

" – he will have a good laugh," Blaise finishes, a smirk playing at his lips.

That was _not_ what I was going to say.

Blaise ignores me as I open my mouth to correct him and claps me on the back, directing me outside the common room and toward the Great Hall. I would have told him to get his hand off of me if I wasn't trying to figure out how to stick Pansy into a vat of boiling butter and serving her on a stick to Queen Mab without getting caught. And, as a bonus meal, in the buy-one-get-one-free evolutionary line, I'll even throw in Crabbe. Hey, you know what? In a sudden moment of brilliance, I think I'll even serve her sautéed Blaise as dessert, and place a lemon slice or two on the side just for decoration.

"Maybe you can smooth talk your way out of it today during practice," Blaise suggests lightly, seating himself beside me when we reach the familiar Great Hall. It seems like it was only last week when the old coot stood at the staff's table in this very same room, announcing the doom that shall befall on all of us who were stupid enough to be persuaded by the temptation of fewer classes.

Oh wait, it _was_ only last week. Damn, that means we still have a whole year of absolute torture ahead of us. You know, maybe I was wrong (for the first time… or second) this morning when I suggested that Blaise was the Dark Lord in disguise. I bet You-Know-Whos really Dumbledore. It would be really brilliant of him – to be the one to control both sides of the upcoming war, so it's a win-win situation, literally.

Hang on… did Blaise just say…

"_Today?_" I repeat, my fork falling from my hand to the silver plate with a loud clatter. I thought for one moment that my mouth might have been hanging open with a bit of bacon inside which might have caused an unflattering picture, but I was too horrified to care. I think my heart has stopped pumping.

I think I know where Dumbledore's getting at. He wants to kill us all himself before his alter ego, the Dark Lord, can by the means of a very, well-thought out, discrete plan that only someone of my caliber could ever realize! He's playing a very smart game, but pity that he cannot trick me! I have caught him red handed! (Okay, maybe not yet, but I will!) The fact still remains that my beautiful life is dangling on a thread being held up by the old coot, and I will climb up that thread by whatever means to keep myself from utter destruction.

"Is it too late to drop out?" I inquire as… _subtly_ as I could.

Blaise smirks. "Yes," he responds, pouring maple syrup on his pancakes. He always eats the same breakfast every second of each month, though he never seems to realize it. "Everything is final." There's a twinkle in his eyes today, something I should have read into, but I ignore it. There are more pressing matters at hand.

All too soon, my wallowing is forced to a rude and abrupt end as breakfast comes to a close and Dumbledore stands up, holding a hand up for silence. The room hushes almost immediately, attention fixed on the Headmaster. They were eager; I was anxious. What new devilry could this guy conjure just to spite me? First the play, then acting, then _lead role_, then Granger, then the _ki_ - gahhh, I can't even _think_ of that scene without feeling disgusted. Just think of her disgusting bushy hair irritating my soft skin, and her putrid breath – MERLIN, I think I just lost a kidney!

Maybe it's not Dumbledore. Maybe it's all Granger, because she wants an excuse to snog me. Come to think of it, it is _quite_ believable – I mean, after all, she is (dare I think it?) somewhat above average in intelligence.

Huh, I _did_ dare to think it. I have the bravery of twenty Gryffindors, just not the stupidity of one.

"Now, some of you will recall the school play I had mentioned only a week ago," he says, beaming jovially to the crowd of students. Some of us will recall? Why, I'd give anything to be that one bloke stupid enough to have forgotten it.

Then again, with a quick glance at Crabbe who looked utterly shocked, maybe not.

"You might have noticed this morning that casting is up, and is available on the notice board in every common room," Dumbledore continues. "You might also have noticed that we have no script writers because, despite what I had hoped last week, there are time limitations and we will _not_ be creating our own script, but using a previously devised one, chosen in a vote by our directors." He paused for dramatic effect, which is bloody stupid because there is nothing so dramatic about what he just said. "Now, let the plot be introduced!"

He seats himself, and out steps a painfully familiar bulky block of wood that responds to the name of "Marcus Flint." I blink; what in Merlin's name is he doing? It takes a while before I realize that he _is_ the director who is presenting the plot, and I nearly choke on my own saliva. What in the world were they thinking? This guy is the one who failed his end of year exams, and the only reason he's able to repeat the year is because his Galleons had a persuasive meeting with the school governors. Really, even _Weasley_ would be a better choice for director than Flint.

Perhaps that was a bit low, considering Flint is – _was_ – my Quidditch captain, but bloody hell! Who is stupid enough to respond to the question, "Describe the Tragedy of the 14th Century" with "Professor Snape's Hair?"

Well, I can see where he's coming from. You know – maybe, if it was the Tragedy of the 20th Century or something.

Flint clears his throat, and it sounds like a bullfrog just belched out its intestines. He pulls out a piece of parchment from his robes and reads in a low, monotone voice, lulling a sleep not unlike the one that rouses from Binn's lectures that is impossible to fight. "The play's theme revolves around hate and love, and of ultimate unity," he reads. Two mortal enemies, from two different upbringings, clash in contradictory colors, until a spilled potion steals them into a fabricated world, where they are forced to depend on each other for survival – but will it ultimately lead to something even stronger than hate?"

What a cliffhanger ending! I briefly imagine being stuck in an obscure world, with nothing but Granger to depend upon. It is enough to send my mind reeling in horror and disgust – I will always be independent! But maybe I will harbor a special emotion, just for her, that is stronger than hate after the traumatizing experience – _extreme_ hate.

What a bloody brilliant plot. Really. I hope no one detects any line of sarcasm in my words, because there is none. By the way, Pansy, is that nail filer of yours sharp enough to work as a stake I can plunge through my heart? For no related reason whatsoever, of course.

Flint strides back to the Slytherin table, his every footstep falling in heavy steps. When he sits, my fork shivers a little on my plate. Not bad – I'm surprised. With Crabbe and Goyle, they can send it flying. I have learned to conjure eye protection very well, thanks to them. I bet I could even beat that Mudblood when it comes to conjuring safety goggles – not that it would be any surprise, of course. After all, I _am_ brilliant.

"Thank you." Dumbledore's standing again, and he's grinning widely at the whole student body as if we've just received a special treat. Why yes, Sir Bat, that was an amazing treat. Can I have a doggy bone too, since I've been extra good? With a big green ribbon on it right across the middle, thanks. "For those of you not participating in the play, you have ten minutes to get to class. For everyone else, please stand in the center and remain behind."

Almost at once, everyone stands and the silence rises into a murmur of chatter before it evolves into those hearty, loud conversations that can deafen a deaf Muggle. A few students sling their bags around their shoulders and leave the Great Hall, but more gather to the center. It's almost amusing to watch – a bunch of idiots migrating to the middle of the room – if only I'm not a part of them.

With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore moves the House tables to the side, pushed against the wall, clearing the hall. Suddenly, a loud chorus of voices rose above the noise (which I didn't quite think possible), each proclaiming in some sort of authoritative manner. As if they had the power to boss _me_ around! I am Draco Malfoy, seventh year, pureblooded, prefect –

Blaise kicks me at the ankles, and I am mercilessly yanked out of my thoughts. He's looking at me with a pointed scowl. "You were daydreaming about yourself again, weren't you?"

That arse! "I was not!" I reply indignantly.

"You were," pipes up Pansy from my left. Where did she come from? She wasn't there a moment ago! "You didn't respond to anything that anybody was saying, and it's national fact that you're always thinking about your _grand_ achievements whenever you're oblivious. Plus, your Achilles' ankle woke you, and it only ever bothers you when you reminiscence of your narcissistic adventures."

I scowl. My ankle is still throbbing; Blaise kicked hard. It takes effort not to limp, because Malfoys simply _do not_ limp. "I do _not_ have an Achilles' ankle," I mutter. Contrary to what others might think, I am not sulking. I never sulk. Sulking is below me.

"Of course you don't," Blaise says patronizingly, his every word reeking with sarcasm. "What on earth was Pansy thinking?" He seems a little more annoyed than amused, though it stumps me why he should feel either. I see no humor in this situation, and I am not annoying! Annoying is for Potheads and Weasels and Mudbloods. "Regardless, the acting department is that way, and we need to get going if _you_ don't want to get lost."

He points to a group of people, only one among masses. I scoff. "I won't get _lost_," I say, irritated by his jejune behavior and his slights against me. It's always frustrating, being the only mature person in a society. "Besides, even if I do, I only need to follow Granger's afro, and you can spot that a mile away."

Pansy laughs beside me and Blaise smirks. "Touché."

The walk from the Great Hall to the room we're supposed to be acting in isn't an absolutely rigorous exercise, but considering that some buggers get to stay in the Great Hall and save the horrid walk one corridor down, that bloody classroom might as well be across the Atlantic.

"I'm playing Allyran," a familiar voice said, painfully conceited and proud that simply the tone made me roll my eyes in disgust. Someone has a broom shoved up their arse. Probably one of the most irritatingly annoying thing in this world (besides Pansy and Blaise) is the people who think they're absolutely brilliant and acts it, especially when they're not. One prime example of this low level form of nonexistent humility is –

Speak of the devil. "Granger," I sneer in acknowledgement. "Get out of my way."

You can barely see her face (a good thing, assuredly) because of all that hair. Her head is like a bobbing brown dust bunny. Her personality is far worse, if possible – shoves her nose in a book all day long, hasn't got any friends, and thinks that her… slightly above average grades prove that she's above everyone else. And that's only the beginning. She never knows when to shut up, and she's got the strangest ideas! There was a rumor a few years back about Granger starting some club called – puke or something? – advertising house elf rights.

Really! _House elves!_

She looks up from the script in her hands and glares at me through narrowed brown eyes that remind me of feces. "I am _not_ in your way, Malfoy," she says, her voice somewhere between heated and cold. I've often wondered how she can pull it off. "If you'll take a moment to pull your head out of your arse and take a look around, I'm a good five meters from where you need to be."

Did she just –

Oh, no, she didn't!

My hand clasps around the familiar shape of my wand just as Blaise bursts out laughing beside me. Pansy – a much more loyal friend – grabs my arm and glowers at the Mudblood, shooting her an angry look. "You'll pay for that one, Granger!"

Granger's eyes narrow even further. "Oh, I'm afraid," she assures in – is that a _sneer_ I detect? Who knew Granger had it in her?

"Merlin!" Blaise says, his eyes dancing with mirth that's about to pirouette itself into Cerberus' mouth, hopefully taking Blaise along with it. "That kissing scene will be great! I – "

"_Kissing scene?!_"

MERLIN, MY EARS!

Pansy's flipping out beside me, and Granger's hysterical in front of me. "Oh, Draco – that's absolutely _horrible!_ To kiss an ugly bucktoothed Mudblood – and of all ugly bucktoothed Mudbloods, it's _Granger!_" I appreciate Pansy's sympathy very much. She is the prime example of what Blaise should be. "And you'll have to practice it, too! How many times? Maybe fifty! Maybe more! Think of all those germs – "

On second thought, I don't think I like Pansy much, either.

Granger's flipping through the script in her hands frantically, her eyes growing wider and wider as her fingers finally still. She clutches the Weaselette next to her, and Weaselette bites her lip, her eyes shining with a mixture of anxiety and sympathy. Granger, on the other hand, is the essence of – well, not really any one thing, actually. More like –

"There's no _way_… no possible way…" Ah, trauma. Granger seems ready to burst. "Ki – oh, Merlin, _him_ – "

"I'd rather bear Aunt Bellatrix's child," I loudly declare, though I inwardly wince at the thought. Okay, maybe not. Then again, with a second glance at Granger, I would willingly bear Lord Voldemort's twins instead of kiss Gra… Grahhh… Grehhgeiru…

You know what? Forget it.

"Pansy, stop staring at me like that. Blaise, you too," I demand.

"He has a point," Granger grumbles. Good grief, are we actually agreeing on something? This is downright horrifying. Almost traumatizing enough to the extent that I might even _want_ to ki – kish… Apparently not. It takes me a while to notice that Granger's still talking, and by the time I do, she's already being interrupted by Flint.

He shoves a stack of parchment in my direction that I recognize to be the script, with small words printed in fine cursive that will be painful to read. "Read it," he says, grumbling out his commands. "Go through a read-through all of today." He promptly stalks out of the room, each footstep probably killing a little fairy somewhere out there, they're _that_ heavy.

The door closes with a click behind him. Well, I think, turning around to face the crowd of actors. I have a stack of flammable parchment in one hand, a wand in the other…

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"You saw the parts, didn't you?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Well, I'm just saying… you remember what we have to do, don't you?"

"…Yes."

"Well, _they've_ got the lead roles now. And you saw the script yourself, you heard the plotline, and – "

"Merlin, no! I know what we've got to do, but that – I mean, _both _of them? There's probably some other way around it, we can find – "

"_No_, this is the easiest, fastest, and Malfoy won't be able to worm his way out of this one. We haven't been able to think of anything else for so long, and this might be our chance. He'll back us up. I know it."

"I don't know, it's still – "

"Look, you're in stage crew, aren't you? You'll have access to all the props. Just make one of them a Portkey."

"But it's – "

"There's nothing else."

"All right. Fine. But I don't like this."

"You don't have to."


End file.
